


Got You Under My Skin

by MissSunFlower94



Series: Strange Magic Week Fics [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Strange Magic week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/pseuds/MissSunFlower94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>50's AU Setting - Bog gives Marianne her first tattoo as they talk about their relationship and the future. Tattoo/Flower Shop Day</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got You Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few months after the events of Love Like Ours Won't Never Grow Old

“You’re still sure you’re alright?”

“I’m doing fine.”

“And you’ll let me know if you’re not?”

Marianne laughed softly. “And what will happen then? You can’t exactly stop.”

Bog shook his head. “I can.”

“Okay you  _can_ ,” she admitted. “But then I’d only have a partially finished tattoo and that just won’t do.”

Bog sighed, exasperated with her seeming indifference. Marianne knew that  _he_  knew she was in pain, but talking made it easier to ignore and besides, it really wasn’t that big of a deal. She had  _known_  getting a tattoo would hurt, even without him informing her of this fact a hundred times in the weeks leading up to her official appointment at the Dark Forest Tattoo parlor, now less than five steps away from her own shop.

The Butterfly Bog Florist - its name, its unusual arrangements and its position directly next to a tattoo parlor - had become something of a town oddity, for which Marianne was extremely proud. She heard plenty of rumors from her old circles about how  _strange_  Marianne Fairwood had gotten; from her apparent taste in men, to leaving her old shop to start one up on the  _dangerous_  end of town, full of gangs and greasers and  _colored_ folk. Marianne was proud of that, too. She had never really felt she belonged back where she had been - let people talk, she was happy now.

Her father was still slow to accept the sudden and drastic changes in his life - between Marianne’s relationship with Bog, the new shop and now the tattoo - but Dawn couldn’t have been happier for her, and that was really enough for Marianne. Dawn had since taken the Fairwood florist shop on the south side of town, now that Marianne had abdicated, and was running it to it’s full pastel potential.

As for Bog’s folk, they  _adored_  her. In a smaller community, people seemed to know and behave like one large extended family and so having Bog find someone, find her, that made him happy - it made her all but an angel. 

The two of them had spoke about her tattoo often when they were alone. Bog had a very thick, very full sketchbook that housed most of his designs and he would show her possible designs for the tattoo she wanted - a butterfly, small, on her shoulder. A personal memory of her mother. They spent their time off-hours either sitting on the fire escape behind the building that housed both their shops, or having taken a ride to the creek just outside town they now both used for inspiration. 

Bog really was all for the idea of that tattoo, his enthusiasm infectious as they poured over ideas, but when it had come to  _giving_  it to her… It was sweet that he didn’t want to hurt her, but it had started to get ridiculous.

(”Okay, you keep saying ‘it’ll hurt’. Bog, but how _badly_ will it hurt? For reference, I broke my leg when I ran my bike into a tree when I was fifteen.”

“What did that poor tree do to you?”

“It offended me. Stay on topic.”)

Now, sitting under the needle, Marianne considered. It  _wasn’t_ as bad as a broken leg, not by half, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Marianne struggled not to twitch or squirm under the sharp pin-pricking sensation, scraping like a kitten constantly dragging claws in the same place. She gritted her teeth and smiled at Bog whenever he looked up from his work in concern… and she talked. Talking helped.

“There’s nothin that says I can’t do this in sessions. If it gets too mu-”

“Bog. I’m fine,” she told him again, sternly. “Really I am. Besides, this is worth it.”

Bog smiled then, a touch bashfully and it was really just too funny; this razor-sharp greaser had a glare that could stop a heart by intensity alone, a sneer that could curdle milk and a voice that could probably cut through stone, but for  _her_ he had a smile like sunrise and a gaze softer than rose petals. What was stranger yet was that both of those sides were  _him_ , and didn’t feel contradictory to her. 

He looked back down and after a moment the needle’s pressure returned - Marianne struggled not to flinch. “It suits you,” he added after a moment.

Now it was Marianne’s turn to feel bashful, her cheeks growing warm. “Really?” She craned her neck to look at the outline of a butterfly on her shoulder, over a half of it already filled in with a vivid purple. It had been her mother’s nickname for her, and the image was something to remember her by. “You don’t think it’s… cute?”

He didn’t look up but Marianne could see him smile. “Cute… works for you.”

“No but I mean, it’s not cliche, is it? I don’t want-”

Bog laughed. “Trust me, Tough Girl, I wouldn’t let you get somethin unless it was perfect for ye.” She relaxed and he added, thoughtfully. “You know, when you first came bargin into my shop to grab your sister, I was in back tryin to, ah,  _persuade_  her not to get the tattoo she wanted.”

Marianne started, surprised. It was hard to remember Dawn had once tried to get a tattoo of the name her latest silly crush; she and Sunny were so perfect together she could barely think back to a time that they hadn’t been an item, even if it had only been a few months. “Really? Even though she’d paid you?”

“Money wasn’t a concern an’ I wasn’t about to give her somethin I knew she’d regret. It’d be a, I duin know, a  _disservice_  to her somehow. Not to mention an insult to the craft.” 

He wasn’t looking at her, simply focusing on his work, and therefor missed the look on her face - equal parts amused and awed by this statement. “So we were on the same side, then. Certainly didn’t come off that way.” She remembered his dismissive attitude well. They hadn’t exactly had a romantic first impression of each other, but then neither of them considered themselves particularly romantic - at least not in the way the songs and movies portrayed the love stories of the ages.

He shrugged one shoulder in a half-hearted manner. “Yeah well, ye looked like ye came ready for a fight. I wasn’t goin to deny you one.” 

She rolled her eyes, which he also missed. “You called me a princess,” she reminded him.

“Yes, well I’m sorry I got you’re rank wrong.” He stayed his hand and looked up with a wide, toothy grin. “A proper  _queen_ , that’s what ye are.” 

The grin shifted to a proud smirk at her blush and he returned cheerfully to his work. Unprepared, Marianne jerked, making a soft sound of distress and Bog quickly stopped again. 

She held up her free hand. “I’m fine. You just- it surprised me.” She held his gaze, willing him to believe her. 

“I can stop.”

“Bog, I promise. It’s okay,” she assured him. “Just… keep talking. It’s helping.”

Bog looked at her a moment longer but dutifully returned to his work. “What do ye want me to say?”

Marianne hunted for a topic that would appropriately distract her. “You could sing.”

He snorted. “No - would break my concentration.  _You_ , however, can sing.”

“ _No_.” He laughed and she refrained from kicking him, knowing that with a needle against her skin, startling him would not be a good idea. Something else occurred to her. “So, I was um- talking with my dad.”

“Oh? Sounds dangerous.”

She had to smile, before plunging forward. “I’m thinking about moving out.”

There was some silence, though he continued working, and she tried to read his face. They had talked about this before, what with the flower shop now on the north end of town and Marianne still only with a permit (her father didn’t want his daughters to drive - for their safety he said. Dawn and Marianne had fought long and hard to get as far they had), commuting was difficult. Bog was the one to suggest that maybe she should consider… staying. He himself had moved back to living above his shop, but Marianne had left the rooms above the florist vacant, save for storage and a room with a single bed for nights she couldn’t grab a bus or a ride back to her suburban home. 

She didn’t tell her father about the nights she  _could_  have gotten home but chose to stay - or how many nights Bog spent in that bed with her, or she in his - but she had been able to tell by the look on his face that he knew what was being implied when she spoke of moving. She didn’t defend herself. He needed to get it in his head that she knew who she was and what she wanted. 

“I don’t suppose he took that well,” Bog said softly, as if he had read her thoughts.

Marianne gave a laugh that was more of a sigh. “It’s going to be a process - _ow_!”

“Sorry,” Bog said, but his voice sounded distant. “I was thinkin. Are ye… sure y’want…”

“Yes,” she told him firmly. “I know what I want.” And she meant it. Yes it had been three months since the whirlwind of days that culminated in the beginning of this very strange romance. She thought back to the way she had been after Roland had broken her so deeply; that she would be so willing to essentially move in with her lover so quickly would have appalled that Marianne. Like a proper fool she was, rushing in. 

Bog halted again, looking up and holding her gaze, looking near disbelieving in the face of her certainty. Marianne remembered that she wasn’t the only one who had had been a fool in love and suffered for it. This was more than  _either_  of them had ever dreamed they could have. 

She smiled as a silent assurance and he the needle aside, in order to lightly grasp her chin, kissing her with a gentleness he didn’t look capable of. Marianne’s heart stuttered, and she distantly wondered at how, despite them having long since crossed the line to more passionate activities, the smallest kisses could still undo her like this. 

He pulled away and, in spite of his flush, managed a delightfully smug smirk at her dazed expression. To her surprise and disappointment, he stood.

“Bog, what are you- what about the rest of it?”

He grinned at her. “You’re finished, Tough Girl. I’m gettin ye the bandages. What d’ye think?”

Startled, Marianne looked at her shoulder. Indeed the tiny Butterfly was in full color. He skin red and swolen and agitated around it, but the art itself. She looked up to find Bog still standing there, gauging her reaction.

“It’s perfect,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. It was everything she had wanted. 

His face lit up like a child on christmas morning and Marianne had to laugh. He disappeared for a moment to come back with bandages and medical tape and explained how she was supposed to care for it for the first week or two before it healed, finished with the promise that, if she was concerned about anything… well, it wasn’t as though she didn’t know where to find him. Marianne listened dutifully, though her eyes kept being drawn to the bandage on her shoulder. Her first tattoo, given to her by the man she loved. It might make her father properly flip, it might be considered scandalous by her old crowd but for  _her_ … 

It was more than perfect.


End file.
